What's In a Name?

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet."

Romeo and Juliet ~ William Shakespeare

Dear Declan:

We’ve been having lots of conversations about your birth story lately, and I love that you’re interested in learning more about your entry into this world. You already have learned many of the details why you were delivered so early, but I don’t think I’ve shared the full story of how we came to choose your name. Since today is World Prematurity Day, I figured it was timely to capture my experience on paper for you and, perhaps, share it with others.*

In some ways, I think Shakespeare was correct in writing the above quote, but I also think he’s missing the perspective I maintain: a person’s name can carry a great deal of energy, and may have a significant impact on shaping his/her experiences in this world. You probably would have been every bit as engaging, intelligent, compassionate, and tenacious with a moniker different than the one you were given, but there is good reason why you have the name you do.

Your dad and I agreed we wanted to be thoughtful in our approach to choosing your name, and set out to make a list of our favorites. We knew a number of couples who chose their children’s names while their babies still were in utero, but we thought it was important to meet you first. We wanted to see you, and get a sense of your personality, and spirit, before making a decision we felt was significant.

We began by setting a few “ground rules” for our choices:

          1. No names of past boyfriends/girlfriends**
          2. No names on the (then) current “Top 10” list***
          3. Consider what nicknames might result from your

            given name****

At the time we began choosing your name, we didn’t know if you were a boy or a girl (and we didn’t care; we simply prayed for you to be healthy and happy), so we worked on lists for both. I’ll admit I had only one or two names I liked had you been a girl, and was struggling to find options your dad and I agreed on. But when it came to boy names, I had a list of seven or eight I really liked. He did, too! The funny thing is that a handful of our choices were the same – and we had ranked them in terms of favorites in a similar fashion. I took that as a sign you would be male.

It wasn’t until some time later, when I needed to have an ultrasound done to rule out spina bifida,***** that we knew for certain you were a boy. We laughed so hard when we saw you on the screen, because the technician showed us how your hand was covering your privates. Your dad chuckled, “That’s my boy!” and we knew you were going to be a lively spirit. We had called you our “little prawn” up until that point, but your movements onscreen every time we used the term seemed to indicate you didn’t like it one bit. So we started calling you Kiddo instead. Interesting how that nickname stuck, eh?

So… back to our list…

Together, we determined our top five names:

1.    Camden – Winding valley

2.    Carson – Son of Carr

3.    Mason – Stoneworker

4.    Callum - Dove

5.    Declan – Full of goodness
(This name also comes from St. Declan, a monk from the 5^th century. He founded a monastery in Ardmore, in what is now known as Co. Waterford. It’s said St. Declan’s stone has been the site of many miracles.)

We were confident one of those names would be the right one for you, and looked forward to the day you would join us outside my body, so we could decide. Little did we know then how that journey would unfold, or what energy would come forward in the process.

You know the backstory at this point, regarding how ill I was when I was hospitalized on the day that became your birthday. (If you’ve forgotten, re-read my post from your birthday eve this year.) When I was hospitalized, it quickly became clear that you needed to be delivered right away, and the tests/prep/procedures that needed to be done to make it happen immediately began.

In addition to steroid shots in my hip to (hopefully) support your premature lungs, and multiple blood tests to measure my platelets and liver function, I was put on magnesium sulfate to help keep me from having seizures. That stuff was wicked! It made me hot and nauseous, and my brain felt incredibly foggy. Some of the details of that day are lost from my memory, but I remember – with great clarity – when the finality of your name choice was made known to me. 

From the time I had checked into the hospital, until the time you were born (and for some time after), I didn’t have a moment to myself… except for one brief window. There were about a dozen medical professionals working with us that day --doctors, residents, nurses, lab techs, and more – and there was a constant flurry of activity around me. As I shared in my “You Smell Like Love” letter to you, all I wanted to do was be left alone so I could sleep. But that was not the case; your stats were constantly being monitored while I endured multiple blood draws so they could check my liver enzymes and platelet count.

At some point, your Grandma Kruse arrived, and she and your dad quickly made a list of who needed to be notified about my illness. They divided up the list, and grandma went to the hallway (for better reception) to begin calling family, friends, and church -- to fill people in, and ask for prayers. There was one lab tech finishing another blood draw, who was on her way out, when your dad asked if I minded if he went to the hallway for a few moments. I knew he had calls to make, and figured he needed a moment to himself, so I told him I would be fine.

Shock is an interesting experience. You might already know this in the cells of your body, given all you have been through; that said, I hope you don’t need to experience it again. I’m not sure I can do justice in explaining it, other than to say I felt more calm and at ease than I’ve ever felt in my life. I knew I was deathly ill, and I still had a significant amount of pain in my abdomen (I’d later learn that was due to my enlarged liver), but I had a sense of peace I hadn’t known before -- or since -- that day.

Since my blood pressure was dangerously high, the staff insisted I lay on my left side on the bed. I was horribly uncomfortable, but it was necessary. It also meant my back was to the door -- something I don’t like -- and I couldn’t see who was coming and going until they came around my side of the bed. I heard the door click as your dad left, and the room was silent for the first time in a number of hours.

As I lay on the bed, my mind started wandering through the events of the day, and I still couldn’t wrap it around the reality that I was preparing for an emergency C-section, more than three months ahead of your due date. “Surreal” barely begins to scratch the surface of my feelings, but it’s the best word I can find. I started thinking about you – what you’d look like, what your temperament would be – and felt all the love in my heart open to you in that moment.

It’s also when I heard a voice, as clear as your dad’s had been just moments before, that told me two things: “You need to talk to him, and tell him it’s okay. His name is Declan.” I craned my head behind me to see who was in the room, but it was empty, save for us. I would have thought I imagined the voice, but it wasn’t the same as the one I have in my mind. I am certain it was not the one I hear when I talk myself through nervous energy, or edit my writing in my head while I’m driving. This was something much larger than me. I actually felt a presence so palpable, I swear I could have reached out and touched it. I answered aloud, “Okay,” and begin talking to you – calling you Declan – and telling you it was going to be okay. Even though I had no clue, I knew. 

Soon thereafter, your dad, grandma, and the docs were back in the room, and we were on our way to the operating room. I wanted to tell your dad what had happened, but there so many other details we had to handle, and I was so tired. I figured I’d let him know later, hoping he wouldn’t mind that your name had been chosen.

Hours later, after you had been whisked away to the NICU, I was in recovery, being watched like a hawk. My blood pressure had already come down significantly, but the feeling hadn’t returned to my legs yet, and the staff was monitoring me closely (we didn’t know at that point if I would be able to walk again or not). Your dad and grandma were there, too, keeping me company.

Some time later, I started feeling the prickling of nerves in my legs, and we all cheered with relief that it seemed I would regain their function. It was at that point that your grandma pointed out how late it was, and told your dad to go get something to eat in the cafeteria – she would stay with me, and alert him if anything changed. 

As she sat by my bed, we chatted a bit about the day, and the craziness that was just beginning with your early birth. She told me that the nurses said I could be wheeled down to see you as soon as we knew I was okay, and I started to reply, beginning with your name before catching myself.

I remember her knowing look, and tone of surprise. “You already named him, didn’t you?” she asked. I replied, “Well… kind of. I mean, yes – he’s named – but I didn’t do it, and I haven’t told Jim yet. Do you think he’ll be mad?” And then I told her what I’d experienced. She sat there, tears shining in her eyes, and then got up to hug me in my bed. “Of course he’s not going to be mad at you! We’re all just so glad you two are still here!”

When your dad got back from dinner, grandma excused herself, and I told him the same story. He was misty, too. For the duration of my pregnancy, your dad and I always had joked that I got 51% of the vote in naming you since I carried you in my womb, and he only got 49%. When I called upon that 51%, he said, “Babe, after what you just went through, you can have the full 100%!”

Of course, we still hadn’t officially met you yet. (That quick whisk by my chest before you were placed in your isolette wasn’t nearly enough.) Eventually, my bed was wheeled to the NICU so I could see you. Your (great) Aunt Hazel and Uncle Bob had come to the hospital when your grandma called them, and I saw Uncle Bob sitting on a bench just outside the NICU as they wheeled me by. I asked them to stop, so I could tell him your name. (His family is from Northern Ireland, and we connected on our love of all things Celtic after my summer living in the Republic of Ireland many years ago.) He smiled broadly when I announced you were Declan, and told me he thought it was a “strong Irish name.” His approval felt like a blessing.

You were too ill for me to see much more than wires and monitors that first night (I was, too), and we all were exhausted, so we didn’t tell the hospital staff your name right away. We wanted to spend more time with you before inking your name on your birth certificate, so you were “Baby Boy Hayes” for a couple of days. It seemed to drive the clerical staff nuts, and they kept hounding us to complete your paperwork. In time we did, though we needed a correction because the person writing it down misunderstood us, thinking we were going with the Irish spelling “Deaghlan” instead. We knew that name would get slaughtered, so we went with the American spelling. That’s why we laugh so hard when folks in this predominantly Dutch neighborhood still manage to mispronounce it.

So there you have it, dear Declan. You are a tenacious young man, and spirited beyond the energy I have some days – but I know that’s how you’ve come so far when so many odds were stacked against you. I don’t know why or where you might need to call upon the energy of your namesake as you grow, but I trust it was bestowed upon you to help you remember – no matter what – you are always, always full of goodness.

Love you, Kiddo.

Mom

* I am always a bit nervous when I hit the “publish” button on these stories to you, because I feel so vulnerable sharing our history with the world… but I do it anyway, so others can learn (if they want) from our experiences.

** We also included bullies and other people with whom we had difficult/painful experiences in this rule. We saw no need in recreating that past experience with our new family.

*** Sorry about the “Top 10” thing. Who knew your name would end up in the #4 slot this year?! We’ve made peace with it by realizing we were part of the trendsetters eleven years ago.

**** No need to hear something like “Nick the d*ck” while out on the playground… ‘nuff said.

***** Long story on that one. Suffice it to say I had some genetic test results come back in the “abnormal” range, and we were told it was possible your spine had never properly formed. That’s another post all in itself.

Found-Word Poem

Writer's Note:  Our prompt in the WYG workshop for Sunday, September 11th, was meant to be both a celebration of making it through our first week of writing, as well as a creative stretch for us to try something different.

Our instructions were to find a Sunday paper (or whatever paper we could get our hands on), and open it up to a full spread -- one filled with loads of words and articles.  We were asked to have a pen or highlighter in hand.

When ready, our instructions were to close our eyes and take several deep breaths.  Once complete, we were to open our eyes, and begin scanning the paper.  Our goal was simple: underline random words and phrases that caught our attention from all over the page.  Then, we were to join them together into a poem or short prose piece.

I'm amazed at how quickly this came together, and how much resonance there is with my own grief about the process of raising a child with disabilities.  Thanks for letting me share.  ~Julie

What if?

Pulse thumped

Like a punch to the heart

Awareness so painfully gained

A labyrinth inscribed

A plastic bin, filled with condolence messages

It adds to the amount of empathy I can have

Protect me out there

Make sure it never happens again

Personal growth out of something that was so horrible

The love and the heritage comes through

Things kind of come full circle

This one’s for you

You Smell Like Love

Writer's Note: This week I began Megan Devine's "Writing Your Grief" workshop. I have been writing for years -- journalling, scratching notes on bits of paper, collecting quotes -- and sharing tiny glimpses of the results. I'm aware grief is spiral in nature (to me, anyway), and knew Declan's impending birthday today was going to bring a lot of difficult things to my surface. So I took a deep breath and jumped in. I'm so glad I did!
 
Megan sends us a daily prompt, specific to grief or the process of grief, and several suggestions for how we might begin our writing for the day. Of course, we are not bound to, nor limited by, these materials; we're free to write as much or little as we feel, in any form we choose, in that moment. God, it is freeing. And, sometimes, very dark and scary.

Yesterday's prompt was specific to the "senses" we have around our experience with grief, specifically the smells involved. I knew immediately what I wanted to write about; I just didn't know how. This one took some time, most likely because -- outside of the inner sanctum of my friends, my mom, and my aunt and late uncle -- not many people know exactly what our birth experience was like that day.

I'm choosing to share it here, today, as I explore a deeper understanding of how my grief has shaped me. Please read gently. This one was tough. ~ Julie 


Dear Declan:

I’d know your scent in a crowd. If I were blindfolded, and told to sniff a thousand children – a million, even -- I could pick out that sweet, musky smell that tells me you’re mine… that I’m yours… every single time. I am unsure of most things, but of this I am certain.

I remember getting my very first whiff of you – so quickly I almost blinked – when you were born, eleven years ago tomorrow. The doctor whisked you by my chest, barely allowing us to make contact, in a hurry to get you to the waiting isolette. You made the tiniest noise... a mewl is the only word that truly describes it… because the air they’d put in your lungs was escaping, and you couldn’t breathe on your own. It shouldn’t have been like that, you know. You didn’t know then, but you do now, I’m certain.

I remember other things from that day, too…

The stream of words that came out of the doctors’ mouths, heavy with importance, and yet completely unintelligible to me. The conversations about “best possible outcomes” when, in reality, we were discussing whether I would most likely die, or just be paralyzed from the waist down. The quiet conversations held in huddles in the corner. The knowing looks. I didn’t know, but they did. I just wanted to have everyone leave me alone, and sleep. They knew if I did, I’d never wake up. Neither would you.

I still can see the bright lights above me in the hallway, as my gurney was pushed at breakneck speed to O.R. 2. I remember the freezing infusion of platelets entering my body from an IV needle the size of a Sharpie while they rushed me into surgery, vaguely understanding that I had to tolerate the shivering that accompanied it because my body was consuming my blood cells faster than it could make new ones. I was told they had to “cook” new platelets at sub-zero temperatures, and the timing of their delivery into my body was crucial: the IV needed to be consumed just before they cut me open. This was the only way to, hopefully, keep me from bleeding out during surgery, and safely deliver you. I’m sure I mumbled “okay” at some point (I know we had signed consent forms), but the words had a different taste to them than I expected.

I remember the spinal, done so effortlessly and painlessly that I wondered if it had even happened. But then the nurse told me to move “Now!” and I slid over onto the operating table and lay back as the lower half of my body went numb. They were saying things to me that I couldn’t catch, and all I could see were those damn bright lights above me. I just wanted a quiet, warm corner where I could curl up in the fetal position, and sleep in private. Instead, I knew I was about to be filleted open so you could be reeled into this world.

As I lay there uncomfortably, unable to feel below my ribs, yet feeling with every cell of my being, I was aware of the table being lowered at my head. I thought I was going to throw up, but I couldn’t move. The anesthesiologist said something to me, and I replied, but our words are gone now. Later, I learned they had put me in “Trendelenburg position” because my blood pressure was so high. I didn’t ask the number; I knew it was 202/125 upon check-in a few hours earlier. (How I'd managed to avoid a seizure before arriving at the hospital baffled them. It was one of many miracles that day.) I was scared to know if it had gotten worse. I kept talking to you, and telling you it was going to be okay. I’m sure they thought I was crazy, but I didn’t care. I still don’t.

Your dad sat at my head, both of us shielded from the slow dissection of my pelvic contents by a thin, blue screen. I was told they removed parts of me, and set them carefully to the side, to make room for your entrance into the world. I remember your dad needed to leave the room when he saw a “gusher” of blood come out of my body. Thank God I couldn’t see it. I probably would have passed out right then – and I do remember them telling me my only “job” was to stay conscious. God, that was hard work.

When you finally entered this world, at 6:11 pm on Friday, September 9, 2005, the operating room was almost silent. I wondered if I had lost my hearing, but then I heard your dad gasp when he saw how tiny you were, and knew the silence was pregnant with uncertainty and disbelief. The monitor attached to me told us you were alive the whole time, but I was never prepared for how tiny you were. Dear God… I found out later that you were just over two pounds. My Darling Declan, that is almost the equivalent to the amount of butter we used in your birthday treats and frosting today.

We had that brief moment together – you on my chest for a millisecond -- before you were gone from sight, with a full team pushing your isolette down the same hallway we’d traveled together a short time ago. I didn’t see you intubated. I’m told no parent should have to witness that, and I believe it. Odd as it sounds, I consider my absence in that moment a blessing.

It was some time later, after they had made sure I was regaining feeling in my legs, that they wheeled my bed down to the NICU to see you. I remember the nurse starting to tell me your stats, and explain everything to me… the machines, and alarms, and IVs, and the spider web of cords attached to your body. I interrupted her. I was barely able to get the words out, but I remember telling her, “Please… I need a minute. I haven’t seen him yet, and I can’t believe this is happening. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.” I sobbed uncontrollably. My mom stood behind me, whispering, “He’s so tiny. My God, he’s so tiny.” Once again, it was almost silent.

I know, even as I write these words, that I sound crazy – but I’ll say them anyway: I swear I could smell you right then and there. You were cocooned in that warm, manufactured womb, closed off from the outside world, so it shouldn’t have been possible. But I could close my eyes and feel every particle of your essence as I inhaled once again. I didn’t dare utter this aloud – or maybe I could have. They probably would have written it off to trauma and shock.

Later that night, once I was back in my private room, one of the doctors came to check on me. A nurse wasn’t far behind him, holding a receiving blanket from the NICU that you had lay on for a few hours. When the doctor finished his monologue, the nurse stepped forward, and offered me the blanket as a comfort – something to hold onto since we were separated. I remember before even putting it to my nose that I could smell you on it. I said something about it aloud, and the doctor quickly jumped in with the fact that it wasn’t possible I was smelling you, because “babies don’t develop their scent for at least a few days.” I was glad I could see the nurse behind him (and it was fortunate he couldn’t), because she sent him the best side-eye, exasperated “fuck off” look, and gave me a knowing smile. He turned and left, and she came close to me and whispered, “Don’t give him another thought, honey; doctors don’t know everything.”

That smell sustained me that night, and for the other ninety-seven I didn’t expect you to live in the hospital. Every time I brought home a load of your laundry to wash, I’d stand at the kitchen counter as I sorted through it, smelling your blankets and “clothing” (if you can call those baby doll-sized gowns clothes). It was comforting most of the time. Sometimes, it made me feel your absence even more.

To this day, that smell takes me back to that very first day. And I treasure it so. Even when you’re sweaty from riding horses, or have sunscreen slathered on your back, and you hug me, I can smell it… you. I can smell you. I’d bottle your scent if I could. I never want it to run out. I want to know it until I take my last breath.

Sometimes when you’re at school, I slip into your room and pick up your pillow or pajamas. I sit down in the rocking chair and hold them, and inhale. I breathe deeply, smelling you and thinking of you. I always say a little prayer for you when I do. There’s something sacred to me in those quiet moments we’re apart, yet I can smell you.

You told me once, years ago, that you could smell me, too. I was surprised such a young boy would be aware, but then you gave it words. I asked you what I smelled like, and you said, “Love. You smell like love.” So do you, Dear Declan. On this eve of your eleventh birthday, you still smell like love.

XO,

Mom